Life Hereafter
by Stylin' Breeze
Summary: It's not that they thought, "This could never happen to me." They didn't think this could happen, period. Warnings: Death/religious violence/PTSD
1. Monday, 4:30 pm

(See bold for warnings and disclaimers. Fic warnings: graphic violence, character death.)

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 **Original a/n:**

 **A** **somber note:**

 **I've had this fic sitting on my computer for a while, waiting for when the timing was right. I'm not sure even now the timing is right, especially for some people, but I do want to do it now.**

 **I have vaguely personal experience with this. Though I didn't know him, a person who worked for my same company in my same city died because of somebody motivated by this "phenomenon", if I can call it that. Part of this fic has been my processing the spontaneous, unfair horror of the world we live in, and part of it is my attempt to understand, how does one _cope_ after something like this.**

 **This story will get progressively darker; fair warning. Yet I like to think there's hope amidst the unfairness, even if that hope is day by day.**

* * *

 **a/n one year later:**

 **Revisiting this fic, I've changed a lot. This story had the therapeutic effect for me that I hoped. I don't have answers to my questions, but I'm grateful to everyone who walked through this meditation with me. I hope it could possibly have a therapeutic effect for others.**

 **Looking back I even find myself uncomfortable with how on-the-nose this story was, but back then I couldn't have mentally explored the subject of loss from any other angle. To be even more explicit: trigger warnings for character death and political/religious violence. I would like to reiterate though: this is not a commentary on RL politics. This is a fic about how life can be normal and easy, and then suddenly everything you know gets upended by a single person's actions.**

 **I've tried to find a common thread through all the even-numbered chapters. The only answer I came up with derived from a spiritual source: "Love binds all things together." Whenever you are suffering, remember: you are not the only one. My biggest regret, if any, is using our lovable, innocent volleyball boys as proxies to reach that conclusion.**

 **Remember all those around you, be grateful for everything you have, and as far as you are able, confront the pain of everything you don't have. There is still a life worth living.**

~ **Breeze**

* * *

It was a special Monday of practice in the Karasuno High School gym, in light of the team's most recent tournament successes. The squad worked double-time on Ukai's orders. Yachi had gone over to the adjacent school building via the breezeway to fetch more hydration for the boys, chancing upon Ennoshita, Narita, and Kinoshita belatedly getting changed. Inside the gym, Kiyoko diligently drew up stat sheets of future foes. Ukai barked orders to the nine boys who had just finished warmups. The only person not accounted for was Ittetsu Takeda, who at that moment was galloping feverishly across the breezeway. He whipped open the gymnasium door, histrionically wheezing, gripping his cell phone.

"Everybody, stop!" he squealed. He gasped again as the room gave the faculty sponsor their attention. "Look at this."

The phone he held up was streaming live video from a news helicopter. The chopper appeared to be tracking a four-door sedan, tailed by police cruisers, through their very own town. Takeda expounded there was an explosion at the main train station, and the occupants of the pursued car were believed to be the suspects. As the vehicle swerved past street signs and recognizable landmarks, it was apparent the chase was frightfully nearby.

Tanaka swiped the phone for a closer look.

"Yeah, get 'em!" he rooted for the cops with Noya's enthusiastic backing. Kageyama swiped the phone and beheld the video with fascination, though he cluelessly couldn't identify the landmarks himself. Tsukishima lifted the phone next giving the video passive curiosity, Yamaguchi peeking around Tsukki's form. Then Kei handed off the device to Daichi, flanked by Suga and Asahi. The only person who couldn't see the phone was Hinata who, hesitating too long before congregating around their teacher, had been locked out of the huddle and couldn't see over anyone's shoulder.

"Wait a minute," Daichi focused. "That's around the block!" Only now did they notice the chop of the helicopter and whine of distant police cars. Ukai nabbed the phone with Takeda and Kiyoko, hoping to find out how much—if any—danger they were in.

It was so surreal Keishin didn't know how to react. Their peaceful town and community were the subject of a national headline. As he gawped at the eerily familiar storefronts whizzing by, the car approached the intersection with the street that fronted Karasuno High. The erratic vehicle skidded a left turn through a stoplight, headed towards their very high school. Tanaka spotted the turn with unbound euphoria.

"He's coming!" he exuberantly shouted, the gravity of the situation not at all apparent to him. Instantly he, Hinata, Kageyama, and Noya dashed to the door, futilely hoping for a glimpse of some action. As police sirens wailed louder and sharper and the spinning blades of the copter rattled ever closer, Ukai warily ogled the phone. The car was speeding past the front wall of the schoolyard at that very moment—never mind, whatever broadcast delay might exist—with the fugitives nearing the main entrance to the school grounds.

And then, as if telepathically attracted to Ukai's unease, the car swerved into Karasuno High's courtyard.

"They're here! Shut the door!" he emphatically hollered.

The posse at the doorway dithered—unsure what "They're here" exactly meant—until sighting a speeding sedan with an entourage of dust adopting a crash-course trajectory for the breezeway and gym entrance. The four students took to flight, Noya slamming the door shut only for it to ricochet open halfway. Ukai snatched a padlock and chain and stampeded towards the opening. Feeding the chain through the handles, he beheld the car barreling nearer at breakneck speed. In a moment, the sedan impaled the rectangular panels of the breezeway, shunting the metal aside flagrantly. Its engine crumpled like an accordion, the sedan continued on its inertia, colliding against the base of the gym steps, directly in front of Ukai's face. The coach fatefully wavered before grasping the handle of the door to shut it.

Before he could close the ingress, however, a punctuating bang preceded a metal object spitefully piercing his chest.

Keishin tumbled backwards, pressing one hand into his torso. In seconds, three male figures with ski masks hustled into the gym, one sporting a handgun, the others AK-47s. They wore ammo straps across their chests and body armor beneath their clothes. The two assault rifle-wielders trained their barrels over the beleaguered occupants, counting two adults (including the man their boss had shot), a teenage girl, and nine teenage boys. Outside, law enforcement rapidly formed a barrier of police cruisers around the breezeway before eventually encircling the whole gym itself. Inside the space, the twelve hostages fearfully beheld their captors as the chief fanned the end of his pistol over each and every one of them.

From behind his ski mask, with a Middle Eastern accent, the leader spoke: "Do as we say, and you may live."

* * *

 **Chapter two is already up**


	2. Wednesday, 9 am

**Chapters alternate between past and present.**

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Koshi Sugawara forlornly gazed at the sealed, uninviting gates of Karasuno High School Wednesday morning, still shuttered solid two days after the ordeal. Suga gulped. He scaled the adjoining wall before launching himself into the schoolyard. Nobody was supposed to be here, so nobody would know.

He wandered around the schoolhouse and mounted the fire escape for the roof. Reaching the top, he was then surprised to discover he was _not_ in fact the only one on school property.

Asahi propped his crossed arms on the railing surrounding the roof, peering pensively at the gymnasium opposite. He said nothing when Suga plaintively marched up beside him. Movable fencing segregated a wide swath around the pulverized breezeway and the soot-stained splotch of dirt where the sedan had been. Sections of the walkway's roof and beams—transmuted when the men apparently detonated a car bomb—curled towards the heavens as if in prayer; the whole structure would have to be gutted and rebuilt. Crime scene tape dangled in an "X" shape over the entry, one of the door panels missing. Every other shred of loose debris had been removed, leaving the area hauntingly derelict.

They had both gotten word this morning: because of Karasuno's unwelcome media attention and uncertainty about its roster, the club had been expunged from nationals. "It was only proper," the powers-that-be stated. Suga sniffled. It seemed beyond cruel for the club to suffer so much only to have the thing he, Asahi, and Daichi worked three years for be stripped away as if _the squad_ were at fault.

"Why?" Suga finally asked after a long silence. "What did _we_ do for this?"

Asahi's head drooped. He scrunched his eyelids shut to hold back tears. The moment he'd sensed Suga on the rooftop, he'd stifled a previously endless sob and didn't want to break down in front of his friend right this moment.

"They want us to mourn," he dispassionately parroted, as if it justified anything.

"I don't want to mourn!" Suga objected with watery eyes, his volume escalating. "I want to go nationals! I want to play volleyball! I want everything to be normal again!" He slammed his fists mutinously on the rail before breaking into tears. Spinning around, he slid to the ground against the railing and buried his face in his knees.

Suga's breakdown was too much. Asahi's own tears flowed again as he gazed at the snidely wide open blue sky. He gripped the railing with his hands and arced into a squat, his forehead clunking against the metal bar.

"What was the point?" Suga moaned, lifting his face. They had grown up thinking hard work paid off. They had done everything right: they had worked their butts off, never given up on their dreams, adapted to several new squads, overcome immense opponents beyond their wildest imaginations. He, Asahi, and Daichi had even subordinated final exams to a few extra months of volleyball just to taste sweet victory. They'd done all the right things…yet in some twisted logic, they had nothing to show for it.

"It's not fair!" protested Suga to the heavens. Asahi snorted before another long pause. Koshi's eye sockets dug into his knees again. Hoping his mumbling wouldn't be noticed, he spoke into his thighs:

"I want to die."

"Shut it! Don't you dare say that!" rebuked Asahi precipitately. The harsh reaction surprised Suga. Beside him, Asahi glared fiercely, the base of his eye sockets like a white ocean. Deep down, truthfully, Suga knew he was just being extreme, but it was genuinely how he felt.

"What's left though? Everything we did was for volleyball, and it's gone," he bewailed. "We'll graduate and have nothing to show for it!"

"We're not the only ones suffering, you know!" Asahi contended forcefully. Having arrived on the rooftop a half-hour before Suga, he'd been thinking about this a bit longer. "Volleyball's done for us—yeah, sure," he verbalized as frankly as possible for the sole sake of saying it, "but it's not for them…."

Suga gaped at the former ace, whose fist trembled prominently. Asahi continued with unrelenting fervor: "They can build a new team. They can win regionals again. They can do what we can't. We won't have a part in that, but even now, they look up to us, you know? They need to see us standing up, undeterred, looking to a brighter future, convinced there's still a whole world out there, with possibility for everyone. For us and for them too…whatever that may be." He trailed off, suddenly solemnly reserved.

Suga sniffled. He couldn't deny that Asahi was right. The words even reminded him of another great motivational speaker they knew. Suga beamed forcibly, hoping his next comment would be taken as a compliment: "You sound just like Daichi."

Mentioning Sawamura's name didn't have the intended effect—on either of them. Asahi flinched. He curled forward, heaving uncontrollably, pressing his bawling eyes into his forearm. Suga tightened his legs into his chest and once more buried his face in his thighs, wailing madly.

And there they found themselves, beholden to grief, ahead of an unknown, unwanted, intangible, yet existent future.

* * *

 **I would like to update every week, two chapters at a time; I'm imagining Sundays given my RL schedule.**


	3. Monday, 5:30 pm

**Last week, I was hesitant to post this story in the shadow of recent world events. Tonight, again, I post in the shadow of recent world events. But this time, I post in defiance of evil.**

 **For that reason, I really wanted to post yesterday, but the chapter needed one more round of revision. Next Sunday is Easter, so I may post the next two chapters on Saturday or early next week instead.**

* * *

Law enforcement of all types besieged Karasuno High School's gymnasium, the target of a nation's horror and dread. Snipers positioned themselves on the adjacent school roof and at windows. The criminals' car by the gym entrance contained unexploded incendiaries, so police formed a wide perimeter around the damaged breezeway and inside the connecting school building opposite. Journalists choked the surrounding streets. An expansive triage tent had been set up nearby where parents, siblings, and immediate friends—including Yachi, Ennoshita, Narita, and Kinoshita—trembled in despair.

The hostages were huddled into a tight circle in the center of the auditorium, guarded by the two subordinates in the three-man squad. Kiyoko compressed a towel to the supine Ukai's chest, Takeda kneeling beside him. The leader of the terrorists communicated with a hostage negotiator through a slit in the sliding door. The only solace for the young prisoners was the hope that their captors would keep them alive just to prevent the police from indiscriminately barging in.

Eventually authorities resorted to using parents as mediators. Sawamura's mom tearfully begged over a microphone atop the school roof for her son's freedom. Daichi quivered at the sound of her speaker-amplified, stricken voice. The masked orchestrator stepped away from the door and approached the prisoners; though his face could not be seen, he seemed somehow annoyed with the woman's cries.

"Which of you is that woman's son?" he huffed. Although he communicated to his cohorts in an Arabic tongue, he spoke fluent Japanese.

Sawamura shivered. "M-mine."

The man dragged Daichi to the doorway. He kicked it open, jabbed his handgun into the teen's skull, and mercilessly displayed the teen's helpless form to the world.

"Shut up, or he dies!"

Seeing her son on the cusp of execution, Mrs. Sawamura shuddered and fainted into the arms of an officer. The masked man yanked Sawamura back inside and slammed the door shut, a cue he would no longer talk. Daichi was hurled like a sack of flour back to his teammates, Tanaka and Noya grasping the fringes of their captain's shirt.

Takeda ground his teeth. At first sight of Daichi's peril, the faculty sponsor eked forward as if to intervene, inhibited only when Ukai clasped the base of his shirt. Sawamura was spared in the moment, but the teacher knew things were getting too dangerous.

"Excuse me!" Ittetsu interceded with the criminals' chief, "these boys—they're all just kids. They don't deserve any of this. Let them go"—he spread his fingers across his chest to punctuate his case—"and keep me."

He glared firmly at the leader, trying not to show any sign of wavering, tuning out the gasps from those around him. Ukai wanted to uppercut Ittetsu's skull.

Unfortunately the cell leader was not impressed with the trade but was at least displeased with the status quo. He decided to change things up a bit.

"All right," the man began, pounding his chest, "I will release anyone who commits themselves to the true religion."

Now Takeda balked. The boys gaped. Noya's and Tanaka's stomachs churned. Sitting up in front of them, Daichi heaved angrily. He was as horrified as they all were, yet his near-death experience and the horrendous vision of his mother fainting convinced him the whole team was in jeopardy if they stayed. Takeda was right in one aspect: they couldn't rely on the police to save them so had to negotiate with the terrorists themselves.

"Keeping watch over all of us is far too difficult," Ittetsu reasoned.

"There's three of us," rebutted the leader, "and keeping only _one_ of you is useless."

"Then," Sawamura inserted, placing a palm on his chest, "then…keep two of us.

Suga gasped, Asahi's eyes widened. Tanaka nabbed their captain's shoulder, but Sawamura jiggled Ryu's hand away and continued his case.

"I'm the captain of this squad, so keep me, and let the team go." He stared defiantly at the boss, even though his heart felt like it'd leap through his throat.

"Sawamura, you don't have to do that!" Takeda objected.

"Shut up," ordered the chief, aiming his pistol Ittetsu's direction. He turned his gaze back to the lad sternly staring him down. The teenager was dead serious about offering himself for the others, and the devout fanatic caught himself admiring the martyr-like character.

It was a waste the boy was a heathen.

"All right, I'll accept your offer and release everybody else," he answered. Sawamura shook. "If _you_ convert to the true religion."

Daichi froze. The deep black eyes behind the ski mask showed no sign of jesting. Daichi tried to keep his teeth from chattering as his head bent forward, glowering sullenly.

It would save his friends, he pondered. But…but was that even an option?

"Please, sir!" implored Takeda. "Don't make him make such a choi—"

"I said, shut it!" The leader fired a round into the floor, the high-pitched squeal resonating painfully in everyone's ears. The man marched on Sawamura whose head snapped up to behold his foe.

"What is your choice?!"

Daichi bowed his head again. "Don't listen to him!", "We'll be fine," he heard his teammates squawk. Sawamura zoned them out.

Swear allegiance to the people threatening his friends?

It was just a couple of _words_ , wasn't it? Daichi had never really thought about religion before. He'd never paid it much mind; was it really all that serious?

The man didn't say he had to _join_ them, just "convert."

He just had to say a few words, and everyone would be safe.

And yet, it seemed to lie about this one thing would be the gravest violation of his integrity possible.

He squirmed.

"No," Daichi mumbled desolately.

He felt beaten, as if he took up a challenge and was pummeled into submission by an unexpectedly tougher foe. His eyes watered. With his gaze at the floor and away from his assailant, he didn't realize their captor was marching toward him until the leader tussled the back of Daichi's T-shirt and hoisted the boy upright.

And then, without any warning, Daichi felt a pistol being jammed into his mouth.

The volleyball captain stumbled onto his back. Daichi helplessly gazing upward, his captor kneeling over him, staring daggers, threatened to pull the trigger at any moment.

"Hey! Stop it!" supplicated Takeda.

"Daichi!" Suga screamed, Asahi latching onto his companion. The terrorist's two comrades observed patiently. Sawamura's arms sprawled aside, too afraid to resist. The man menacing to end Daichi's young, fragile life glared narrowly through his mask.

"Do not blaspheme the might of God," he censured.

The barrel dug uncomfortably into the back of Daichi's throat. Tears evacuated his eyes, rolling over the side of his face to pool on the floor. He quaked uncontrollably. He saw flashes of his family, his teammates, and their incredulous successes as a squad this past season. It all now seemed like a fantasy, like a carefree dream he'd violently woken up from; or like he'd descended into a nightmare of unimaginable proportions that was all too fearfully real.

And then, when the pistol's trigger was depressed, the nightmare ended with a burst of red.

In that moment, Sawamura did not know what god he was praying to, but he prayed his teammates would live.


	4. Wednesday, 10 pm

**During the last revision, I caught myself tearing up towards the end of this chapter. Surprisingly, actually.**

* * *

It was after dark when Nishinoya asked Ryu if he could to Tanaka's house. Tuesday morning and again mid-Tuesday night, Nishinoya was overcome by horrific night terrors, annihilating his will to ever sleep again. Ryu was battling insomnia himself, since every time he shut his eyes Daichi's last pitiful convulsions materialized inside his eyelids. The pair shut themselves in Ryu's bedroom late Wednesday night, the taller boy curled atop his comforter, Noya slumped against the wall on the floor. A lamp on an end table provided the only light in the room.

Normally they'd talk about girls, matches, _Volleyball Monthly_ , or how badly they were doing in class. All that seemed meaningless.

And yet, they had the urge to do _something_.

The media spoke melodramatically of the unprecedented violence that swept humble Miyagi Prefecture. Commentators compared it to horrendous acts carried out in Europe and America. Politicians demanded stricter immigration enforcement. Experts bandied about names of Middle Eastern countries and foreign terrorist organizations as causes. Pundits insisted destroying those organizations was the key to preventing a recurrence.

And yet for all the talk, nobody in faraway Japan was really willing to do anything. It infuriated Yuu. If there were to be a repeat, Daichi's death would be in vain, he felt. He himself had to do something if no one else would.

"I want to go," he mumbled.

"Fine," Ryu waved phlegmatically from the mattress, "go home."

"No. I want to go to Syria."

Ryu sat up cross-legged, lugging a pillow into his chest. "Where?"

"It's the place where those guys came from."

"Oh, yeah," Ryu recalled, then he jounced. "Wait! What?!"

"I'm going to fight them."

"You're stupid, you know," Tanaka spat.

"No, I'm not!" insisted Noya. "I read about it last night. There are people who've gone there to fight them. From England I think."

"But you're not from England."

Noya bolted to his feet. "Who cares?! I'm going!"

Ryu gawked. Yuu was mouthing utter madness, and yet he seemed absolutely dead-set. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"It's better than moping," Noya griped.

Tanaka ogled his longtime friend. Noya honestly wasn't sure what reaction he'd expected from his pal. Part of him anticipated and even hoped Ryu would talk him out of it, yet Tanaka simply glared, gauging Noya's resolve.

"Fine," Tanaka sighed, "I'll go too."

Noya jolted. "What?"

"You'll die out there, being so short and all," he teased, tossing the pillow onto the floor.

"Being short is my strength!" boasted Noya. "I can dodge bullets!"

"And you'll need backup," smirked Ryu, aiming a thumbs-up at himself. Noya's face lit up. They were both committed to this insane idea. Nishinoya leapt onto the bed giddily, eager to begin plotting their operation.

"So, how're we gonna get there?" inquired an eager Ryu.

"Well, I don't know. Where is Syria anyway?" Nishinoya extricated a geography textbook from a stack on Tanaka's desk and brought it back to the bed.

Finding a spread of the Middle East, Ryu pointed to a triangular country on the coast. "Here! What's nearby?" They skimmed nearby country names, hoping to find a familiar reference point but didn't really recognize any. It certainly wouldn't be a short road trip.

"So, we have to fly?" mulled Yuu.

"Maybe we can get there from Haneda," Ryu suggested, speaking of Tokyo's busiest airport.

"No, idiot!" rebuked Noya. "Narita does international flights."

"Well, Kansai's closer to Asia," Ryu snorted, speaking of Osaka.

"And then our family won't be able to find us 'cause we'll be so far away!" Noya eagerly noted.

"We'll need passports." Tanaka rubbed his chin. "I wonder where you get passports."

"Maybe you have to go to Tokyo. Ah! Do you think we have to talk to the embassy?" Yuu questioned.

"No! Then they'll want our parents involved." Ryu snapped his finger. "Hey! I can persuade my sister to drive us to Kansai!"

"You think she could drive us to Syria?" Noya ridiculously poised. Tanaka guffawed. His sister could do anything. "We'll need guns…."

They paused, jointly furrowing their brows.

"We'll just have to buy 'em when we get there," dismissed Noya. "I wonder where these guys' headquarters are?" Pausing to type a search into his phone, he jolted with another brilliant idea. He bounced infectiously before Tanaka. "Hey! Let's sneak into their headquarters and kill 'em before they even know it!"

Tanaka sprang forward, eyes bulging fervently. It was brilliant.

"Yeah! They'll never know what hit 'em." Ryu threw two punches at the air giddily.

"How're we gonna sneak in?" asked Yuu.

Tanaka snickered devilishly. "We'll just say we're one of them."

The room fell gloomily silent.

 _We'll just say we're one of them._

Tanaka rolled onto his back, his limbs spreading languidly. Nishinoya scowled.

"You think Daichi would like this?" Noya groped.

"'Course not," mourned Ryu.

"This is dumb," Noya finally griped, and then they said nothing.

Nishinoya shoved the geography book onto the floor and rolled onto his side, his legs curling up almost like a fetus.

"How do you think Daichi is?" Ryu mooted. Noya shrugged, trying not to think about their captain to avoid sobbing. It wasn't working. He smacked the comforter with his fist, choked, and began to cry, scrunching the blanket into his moist eyes. "That idiot…."

"Hey! Don't get my bed all wet!" protested Ryu, darting upright at the sight of Noya rubbing his face with the comforter like a tissue. His own eyes teared up. "—y-you jerk." He sniffled into his pajama sleeve.

Together they wept and moaned without interruption.

At last Yuu found himself gazing across the plane of Ryu's bed, so exhausted his eyes were blinking to stay awake.

"Are you gonna keep playing volleyball?" he asked Ryu.

Tanaka pulled his forearm from his face, his cheeks pink and puffy. "Course," he whimpered. "Daichi would."

"M-me too," Nishinoya said. "And we're gonna win too." He smiled, though his eyes watered again. "For Daichi."

"Y-yeah," Ryu grinned forcibly. "Yeah," he repeated more sternly, beaming against his tears. He took a moment to sob again rubbing his sleeve against his face repeatedly. He tried to contain himself, but the memories of the captain's warm motivational shouts and validating compliments brought him to full-on tears again. He pulled in his legs and moaned inside his folded arms atop his knees.

A few minutes later, he peered over his forearms at Noya.

"H-hey..."

Noya's eyes were closed, and his breathing was measured and smooth. He was asleep.

Tanaka frowned as his eyes squinted from exhaustion. He rolled onto his side and pulled his feet in to give Noya some room. He glared at the lamp illuminating the room, thinking he should turn it off but didn't have the energy as his eyes flittered open and closed.

He forgot about the lamp when his eyes didn't reopen, and he reflexively rolled away from the orange glow beyond his eyelids. In the darkness inside his retinas, he beheld Daichi's confident, content grin.

* * *

 **Updates to publishing schedule will be on my profile page. In the meantime, cherish life.**


	5. Monday, 5:55 pm

**This was a long, long two-week stretch, but this is the halfway point at least.**

* * *

The attitude of law enforcement turned the moment one of the hostages died. Gone were the cautious negotiations and parental please, much to the relief of the leader of the troop of gunmen. Even so, their options were wearing thin. The boss peered through the slit in the door at their former getaway car. The motor was certainly trashed, but the laden explosives, wired to detonate by cell phone, could serve as a distraction while they made a run for it. To where was the question. Then the boss had an idea and eyed the bespectacled, adult hostage who'd earlier offered himself in exchange for the kids' freedom.

"You have a car here?" he whispered, bearing down on Takeda.

"Uh, yes?" Ittetsu nodded.

Takeda warily answered the man's probes about his personal vehicle, located in the faculty parking lot on the other side of the schoolhouse. The most direct route under normal circumstances would have been across the breezeway and through the central, bisecting hall of the academy building.

"Good. You'll take us to it," the man finally remarked, bolting upright and conferring with his comrades in Arabic. What was that supposed to mean?, Takeda wondered in shock. At last, the leader addressed the other hostages huddled together on the floor.

"All right, we will let some of you go." He displayed three fingers. " _Three_ of you will stay." He then pointed at Takeda, "and _you_ will be one."

The other two gunmen began circling the prisoners carefully. They coldly inspected each subject, hoping to prune the most suitable keepers. The injured adult was useless for the task. The girl and the older boys stared daggers at their captors, threatening to fight if they were chosen. Grouped in the rear were the four youngest captives. The two henchmen halted above the group, hoping to pick their targets from the foursome.

A mean-looking kid with flat black hair recalcitrantly glared back while the tallest of the four delivered an impassive gaze from behind his spectacles. One of the gunmen zeroed in on an orange-haired runt, who pouted as if trying to show displeasure but instead looking cutely harmless. The other honed in on the green-haired boy who, in contrast to everyone else, could not conceal his abject terror as he hung off the bespectacled kid's arm.

They pointed their assault rifles at their chosen prey.

"You two, move," commanded the leader to Hinata and Yamaguchi. Their hearts skipped a collective beat before unquestioningly squirming towards Takeda already segregated from the rest.

Each hostage was allowed to leave through the main doorway one at a time. Because of difficulty standing, Ukai was allowed to leave with the girl supporting him. Shimizu's glance bolted to the floor, trying to remain as dignified as possible. An arm across her shoulder blades, Ukai hobbled with a bloodied white towel compressed to his chest. Ever since being shot, there was nothing he could do for the students entrusted to him, and for that he utterly loathed himself.

Then departed the other teens, chosen at random by the leader pointing his pistol at each one-by-one, until only Tobio and Kei remained.

"You," barked the leader at Kageyama. Tobio delivered a lasting gaze at Hinata tucked in a crouch beside Yamaguchi and their teacher. Shoyo betrayed not a hint of fear surprisingly, proclaiming silently that he would be all right. Kageyama bobbed his head, trusting the spiker to keep his determination. He sorely hoped Hinata's confidence was misplaced. It felt just a tad selfish, but he wanted more than anything for them to continue to play volleyball.

Tsukishima rose once Kageyama exited of the gym, stifling any fear for his best friend's safety in order to go out with grace.

"Hey, don't worry about me," Yamaguchi suddenly whispered, catching Kei off-guard. "Take care of yourself," he beamed tenuously.

Tsukki jerked his face away so Yamaguchi couldn't see his grimace. The sendoff was too martyr-like for Kei's liking. Further, as the "cool" one of the duo, he had wanted the last word himself, only for Yamaguchi to steal the moment. There was no comeback he could conjure, and—as if in the height of lameness—he marched out in silence.

The freed prisoners turned sharply around the mashed car toward the police line. Kageyama, palms to the back of his head to show he was no threat, pattered past the trunk when Tsukishima reached the threshold. He mimicked Tobio's posture and made his way down.

As soon as Tsukishima was out of view, the gunmen lined up against the wall by the doorway, gripping their respective hostages. Yamaguchi spotted the leader produce a flip phone from his pocket and dial. Why did they need a cell phone?, he wondered.

And then he remembered all the crime movies he'd seen and where Tsukishima was walking at that exact moment.

"Now," the leader pronounced, hitting Begin Call.

"Tsukkiiiii!"

Kei caught the screech of his name indubitably from Yamaguchi's mouth and froze oblique to the sedan's trunk. A spontaneous, sweltering wave engulfed his back and legs. And thereafter he remembered nothing.


	6. Wednesday, 11 pm

The hospital released Tsukki Wednesday evening. He'd need crutches, but in her dependable text message updates, Kiyoko assured everyone that his legs would heal. Yamaguchi, morosely sprawled across the comforter in his bedroom, bit his lip.

It wasn't fair. Why he himself left unhurt?

He gazed at his hand extended into the air, fingers spread-eagled over the ceiling light. He thought he could see the sunset two days ago beyond his fingertips. A dark blob seemed to materialize on his wrist. Yamaguchi snapped his arm to his chest to avoid staring into the haunting mirage.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine," he recited.

His phone rang, a welcome distraction. It was Akiteru.

"You should come over," Akki said.

"R-really? Like, n-now?"

"Just do it. He won't say it, but he wants to see you."

Akki let Yamaguchi in around 11 o'clock. The home was devoid of life as Tadashi made his way to Tsukki's closed bedroom door. He knocked with no reply, inhaled deeply, and let himself in.

"Tsukki!" he chimed cheerily. His countenance turned beholding crutches by Kei's bed. Headphones over his ears, Tsukishima skimmed a magazine in bed, his legs hidden beneath the covers, an unopened cherry soda beside him.

"Tsukki?" Tadashi called again, his entrance unnoticed. Kei turned the page and happened to raise his glance. He jolted at Yamaguchi's appearance, knocking the soda can onto the floor.

"Uh, I'll get that," Yamaguchi squirmed. He scooped up the can, towed a stool beside the bed and sat, huddling the beverage to his chest. Tsukki sulked.

"So, um, how long—" Yamaguchi began.

"Four months," Tsukki interrupted.

"C-cool," grinned Yamaguchi.

"We can't play at nationals," Kei continued dryly.

"No. The principal said it wouldn't be right—a-and I kind of see where they're coming from…." He let himself drift off, not wanting to make Tsukki feel worse. He wasn't sure why he felt the inborn need to treat Tsukki delicately. Then he noticed magazine Kei had been reading, the most recent issue of _Volleyball Monthly_.

"Were you reading about our game?" he asked. Tadashi hadn't seen the article yet, which portentously came out Monday.

Kei cast a piercing glare, though Tadashi wasn't sure why. Tsukki dropped his eyes.

"Yeah," he answered grimly.

"Was it good?"

Kei shoved the magazine into Yamaguchi's hands. Tadashi found the article and checked to make sure Kei wanted him to read it on the spot. Tsukki gazed vacantly into the ridges of the covers where his legs were. Tadashi gulped and pored over the write-up. A few paragraphs in, his eyebrow cocked.

"Whoa, they mentioned you shutting down that Tendou guy…."

Kei grit his teeth. Yamaguchi quivered.

"I-I-I didn't mean anything by it. I-I mean, it's just…cool, you know? A-and, you'll be even better next time."

"What next time?" Kei groused.

"What?" he inquired. "The doctors said you'll be fine in four months, right?"

Kei seethed. "Stupid Akki didn't tell you."

"D-didn't tell me what? You can't tell me you can't play anymore!"

"Shut up!"

Yamaguchi balked. Tsukki bent forward, forming fists that he batted against his covered thighs. He tossed his glasses aside and daubed the blanket into his eyes.

"It's just a game," he repeated. "It's just a stupid game…." Of course, to him, now it wasn't just a game. He wondered what Bokuto would say in this situation.

Yamaguchi slouched and sniffled. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Kei dismissed.

"I should have said something sooner," Tadashi groveled, recalling his screaming Tsukki's name. "I should have stopped him. They…they wanted me…" he pouted. "It's not fair I'm fine."

"Don't give me that!" Kei grappled Yamaguchi's shirt tugged the boy over the mattress. Tadashi gaped at Tsukishima's inflamed visage. "You've been acting like this happy hero since yesterday, and it's pissing me off."

Kageyama said Tadashi was seeing a counselor, but whenever he probed for information, he was met with an obvious, irritating front.

"W-what do you mean?" Yamaguchi feigned with a meek grin. He should have known he couldn't hide things from Tsukki, yet griping about his own so-called "damage" would be impetuous, he thought.

Tsukishima glared. It had been no big deal for Tsukishima to—superficially, at least—accept the fact the muscles singed by the explosion would never heal enough for him to play volleyball again. They all had to accept how their lives were changed, yet Yamaguchi insisted on being stubborn. He didn't want to deal with it and thrust Tadashi back onto the stool.

"Give me that soda," Kei enjoined, replacing his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Yamaguchi surrendered the can without complaint. Kei impatiently popped the lid, releasing a volcano of red liquid that drippled onto Kei's arm, undershirt, and blanket. He huffed angrily as Yamaguchi galloped out of the room to get something to clean up the mess. Kei set the can on the nightstand and was assessing the damage when Yamaguchi returned with a paper towel bouquet.

"Here, I'll clean it," Tadashi volunteered. Kei extended an arm acquiescently, ignoring the minor humiliation of asking others to clean soda off his form.

Then he realized, despite Yamaguchi's offer, the boy wasn't doing anything.

"What are you waiting for?" bickered Kei. Looking into Yamaguchi's eyes, he jolted.

Tadashi's eyes were transfixed on the reddish splotches discoloring Tsukki's arm. He shuddered compulsively, chest inflating erratically.

"Yamaguchi?" Kei called to no effect. "Yamaguchi. Yamaguchi!"

Tadashi spontaneously snapped to reality, dropping the paper towels onto the bed. His still-quivering arms withdrew to his sweaty face, feeling his cheeks as he shyly glanced away.

"S-sorry. I-it's nothing." A teardrop involuntarily rolled out one eye.

"It's not 'nothing'," fired Kei.

"No, really. I'm fine—"

"If you're going to spew that bull, get out!"

Yamaguchi halted. "No!" he pleaded. He didn't want to be left alone another night with flashbacks.

Kei drilled his penetrating glance into Yamaguchi's visage. "Then tell me," he ordered sternly.

Yamaguchi tensed up, shivering faintly at the thought of verbalizing the images that regularly embroiled his mind. He wanted to share with Kei, but he also didn't want to think about it.

"No," he whimpered.

"Tell me!"

"No!"

"Get out."

Yamaguchi flinched. Kei was seriously hurt, yet he didn't know what to do. Silence meant leaving, which meant pain. And yet speaking itself was pain.

He wanted Tsukki's empathy so badly.

"I—"

The words failed to materialize, as if he were just learning to talk and didn't have the vocabulary for it yet. He gripped his hands around his shoulders, tightening his stance for protection. He tried blotting the intrusive images into his head as he tried to figure out how to mouth them.

"Please…," he found himself begging nonsensically. His shivering became more pronounced, and for the first time, even Kei was disturbed.

"Yamaguchi?"

Tadashi ignored his name. As if tempting his mind, he withdrew his fingers from clutching his shoulder blades and held his trembling forearms and palms before his face.

They were covered in another man's blood.

Yamaguchi let out the most bloodcurdling cry Tsukki had ever heard. He bowed fully at the waist, his face thumping into Tsukki's lap, hands thrown over his skull as if for protection. He moaned and sobbed, trying to rid the disturbing image and events that had haunted him the last 48 hours. A discomposed Kei tried jiggling Yamaguchi and calling his name.

"Yamaguchi. Hey, Yamaguchi! Hey!"

"Tsukki," Tadashi tearfully beckoned, his voice muffled by the blanket over Tsukki's hips. Kei halted. "…Please…stop," he calmly implored.

Tsukishima extricated his hands from Yamaguchi's form. Tadashi's body had stopped quaking. Kei pouted, more than a little guilty at the pain he'd selfishly inflicted on his best friend.

He wanted to know what was going on so badly—with everyone, even. He hated being cut off, being infirm, being useless. Moreover, he and Yamaguchi had shared the past several years together. For there to be something Tadashi couldn't share was dispiriting.

And yet, like his own predicament, he feared he may just need to accept Yamaguchi's insecurity too.

"Just, please…when you're ready," he asked.

Yamaguchi's breathing had returned to normal. "Sorry," he added, still bent forward. He righted his spine and sat back on the stool, both avoiding eye contact.

"Don't be. I am," Kei rebutted.

Tadashi inhaled and exhaled deeply.

"I will. I'll tell you," he began to shudder faintly again, "e-eventually."

That was good enough for Kei, for right now.

Suddenly he grasped Yamaguchi's fingers and pulled his hand against his chest. Kei tilted his head.

"I'm just glad you're alive," he added, trying not to cry.

Yamaguchi stared long at Kei, his hand tightly pressed to his friend's warm, soothing chest. He rested his forehead on Tsukki's shoulder, eyes shut.

He was glad Tsukki was alive too.

* * *

 **Four more chapters to go.**

 **This chapter was the hardest to write, and I kept changing the ending every single draft. Not sure I'm totally satisfied with how it turned out either. Any thoughts in that regard welcome.**


	7. Monday, 6 pm

**Concerns have been expressed about the potential provocative nature of the subject matter. I am aware of that potential, which is why I don't want to hype this story excessively. In hindsight, I could have been less intense with chapters 3 and 4 too, but there will be nothing else that approaches that level.**

 **We are nearing the end at least. Don't worry; the rest of my fics aren't as drastic as this one has turned out to be.**

* * *

The explosion of the car disrupted an ill-suited local police force as a screen of smoke engulfed the chasm between the gym and schoolhouse. One of the auditorium sliding doors flew out of its track and ricocheted across the laminate floor. Then the gunmen with their hostages sprinted full throttle into the smokescreen.

Hinata, Yamaguchi, and Takeda hacked inside the smog. The boss of the criminals kicked in the door of the school building at the other end of the breezeway and bolted inside, followed by the others. Each captive quickly realized they were mere human shields for the audacious race to the faculty parking lot. Law enforcement was too disoriented by the blast to even realize at first that their targets had absconded from the gym.

The leader burst out the other end of the schoolhouse at the parking area, not a single police officer in sight.

"T-that one!" A flustered Takeda signified his four-door sedan in the lot. He knew facilitating the escape was a terrible choice but refused to do anything to jeopardize Hinata or Yamaguchi's safety. The leader hurled Takeda forcefully against the driver's side door.

"Open it!" he shouted. Ittetsu fumbled in his pocket for the keys, his hands too clumsy under pressure to grip the keyring. The leader tipped a handgun to his skull to make him hustle. Takeda gripped the fob and pressed the automatic unlock, unlatching all four doors.

"I-it's open!" he exclaimed, now extricating the keys, quickly swiped by his custodian. The man grasped Ittetsu's upper arm to prevent him from hightailing it, whipped open the driver's side door, and plopped in the seat. Yamaguchi and his captor held up in front of the rear driver's side door, while the other gunman hauled Hinata to the other side of the vehicle. As the boss aroused the engine, patrol cars promptly whizzed around the schoolhouse to form a blockade.

"Dang it," grumbled Yamaguchi's guard. He released his prisoner, crouched down, and steadied his assault rifle. He sprayed a glut of ammo on the responding police cruisers, pockmarking a few windows and car exteriors. Officers took cover behind doors and the cruisers themselves, unwilling to return fire and risk hitting the hostages.

Yamaguchi gazed in a trance at the surreal violence before him, his stomach churning from the rhythmic rumble of the weapon. He felt sick and took an unconscious step away from the firing, unwittingly clearing a line of sight for a repositioned marksman on the roof.

A sniper rifle cracked raucously. Blood spewed like a fountain from the head of the crouched shooter. His body thudded limply against Takeda's car and slid to the pavement. The crimson spray sprinkled across Yamaguchi's arms, T-shirt, and face. The boy froze, paralyzed, suddenly unaware of anything around him.

The boss in the driver's seat scowled. Hinata's captor whipped open the backseat door on the passenger's side of the vehicle and speedily threw Hinata against the floorboard. As Shoyo fell, he caught a glimpse of Takeda. Still in the lead abductor's grip, he gaped at the blood-coated Yamaguchi.

"Yamaguchi, a-are you OK?" he inquired.

Shoyo saw the leader of the thugs point his pistol at Ittetsu's head, outside the teacher's peripherals.

"Sensei!" he screeched, his cry deadened by the simultaneous gunshot. Takeda dropped to the ground. Shoyo thumped against the floorboards, finding himself wedged between the front and back seats, his calves heedlessly trampled by his guard sliding into the vehicle. Hinata was too scared to resist. He could see nothing but the floor of the car. What happened to Takeda? Was Yamaguchi going to be OK? Where were they taking him?

Tadashi gaped at the spot where his teacher, Ittetsu Takeda, stood but could not mentally process what had just happened. Later, he would barely remember Takeda's attack. He trained his shivering pupils onto his bare forearms dyed in blood, collapsed to his knees, and screamed.

The car growled and rumbled as it accelerated to breakneck speed. Shoyo could barely detect Tadashi's traumatic wail over the drumming of the motor. He began to cry. At that moment, he concluded he had just witnessed Takeda die and became equally assured that, soon, he would die too.


	8. Thursday, 8 am

It was all Ukai's fault.

He'd hesitated that critical second when the crooks' car slammed into the steps of the gym, and if Ukai had closed the door before he was shot, the whole ordeal never would have happened. Now he found himself squirming on a hospital waiting room bench beside Kiyoko for the third day in a row, awaiting an update on the last person still in intensive care:

Takeda.

Kiyoko's phone vibrated with a text. "It's Suga," she read. "His family wants to invite you to dinner."

"What for?" lamented Ukai. Kiyoko, maintaining a stoic comportment ever since Monday, inhaled deeply.

"…To thank you," she added frankly.

Ukai winced and hopped to his feet. There was nothing to thank him for, he groaned.

"Say whatever you want. I'm going for a smoke," he declared, exiting the lobby with hands in pocket. He found a secluded, shaded area against the wall where he slipped out a pack of cigarettes. He was smoking twice as much, burying the stress, guilt, and pressures of a coach in tobacco. Not only had Kiyoko supported him after his injury—smothered in chafing gauze now—she had taken it upon herself to be liaison with the rest of the team about everyone's health. It was mildly irksome for the teenage manager to be doing what was fundamentally the coach's duty. However, Keishin was shamefully grateful since he himself hadn't the nerve to face any of his students for a prolonged period of time.

"I see not even this can make you break that habit," Ikkei Ukai chuckled. Keishin glared at his grandfather. "Thought you'd be hiding here," the old man grinned. It was the exact same spot where the former coach smoked whenever he was sick, away from the judgmental eyes of health-wary nurses.

The younger man sulked. "I can't do this."

"What's this bull I hear?"

Keishin crumpled the midsection of the cigarette with his index finger. "I couldn't do anything for those kids, you old codger."

"Nope, you couldn't," proclaimed Ikkei brusquely. "Nor could I've." Keishin gaped at his grandfather perched against the wall beside him, contemplating the sky. "Why do we coach?" he began, fully intending to answer his own question.

"You're going to get philosophical on me?"

"We coach for ourselves," Ikkei continued defiantly, "to give us something to do with these old bodies, and to help these kids do what we couldn't."

"Yeah, we already know what I couldn't do," griped Keishin,

"Now that's why we _start_ coaching," the elder persisted, "but that's not why we keep it up. You know, we're a father to those kids. We get a say in their lives, and they look to us for guidance, for strength, for instruction, and support. Sometimes they're incorrigible brats and won't do what you tell them,"—Keishin's memories irresistibly conjured a couple such incidents from better days—"and sometimes they'll surprise the pants off ya," Ikkei smirked, recalling a particular pint-sized spiker from his tenure.

Keishin twirled his cigarette. "And what does this have to do with—"

"Those boys need you," bluntly stated Ikkei.

Keishin smooshed the cigarette in his fist. He glowered at his grandfather. "What they _need_ is—"

"Those boys are adults," Ikkei frowned, "—so they think anyway. They want to do anything and everything on their own; that's their instinct. But they're not adults—they're just kids. They have parents at home, but they only know and can teach them so much. We help those kids where their real moms and dads can't: put order in their lives, purpose, and focus. Their happy season's over, and you know right now they've lost all that: no order, no purpose, no focus. They need you more than ever, and here you are, skulking in some dark corner while you make that girl keep the team together."

Keishin shuddered. _Kiyoko_ had called the old man here. And as much as his pride made him want to deny it, she had been right to do so.

"And you know," Ikkei finished, springing forward from the wall, "we may be dads to them, but we screw up too. Just like real dads. And we have to apologize sometimes." He chuckled. "Yeah, it sucks like you wouldn't believe, but then we jump right back in like it never happened." He ambled away proudly. Keishin pouted in the shade a little longer, scrutinizing the butt he'd crushed in his palm. He tilted his hand, rolling the cigarette to the ground and marched inside.

The moment he entered the lobby, Kiyoko threw her arms around his waist, colliding against Keishin's sore abdomen. He stifled a shriek from the momentary jolt of pain and looked down to realize Shimizu was crying.

"H-hey, what's wrong?" he stammered. Kiyoko only gasped strenuously. Ukai cast his glance upward towards the spot where Ittetsu's middle-aged parents had been sitting. His heart raced. Mrs. Takeda was bent over her husband's shoulder, the petit man hugging her tightly while a doctor stolidly towered over them.

Keishin gnawed his lip. Being a "dad" wasn't worth this, he thought.

Kiyoko separated herself from the coach, wiped her eyes with her wrists, and produced her cell phone, still sniffling. "I—I'll tell…everyone," she forced.

"No," interjected Keishin, legitimately surprising Kiyoko. "You go home. You've done enough," he dictated. Ukai nodded to affirm his resolve. Kiyoko nodded compliance and marched past the adult, pressing the cell phone to her chest.

As she passed, she caught another word from the coach: "Thank you."

She froze and tried to resist tearing up again.

"Hey. Did you text Sugawara?" he asked. Kiyoko shook her head. "No need," Ukai concluded. Kiyoko paused.

"Thank you," she faintly mumbled in reply before pattering out the lobby door. Ukai shuddered. He hated when his old man was right.

He consoled the grieving couple and then left the hospital, withdrawing his cell phone and picking out Sugawara's name from his contacts list.

"Hello?" Koshi answered on the line.

"Hey. I—," Keishin started, "—t-there's—" he inhaled through his nose, trying to figure out how to say what he was about to say.

"Coach?" Sugawara beckoned amidst the silence.

Keishin answered rapidly: "I-if your family wants me to come over, sure, all right. Tonight, for sure. But first," he paused, "how are you doing?"

They talked for a good long while after that.

* * *

It was an exhausting next three hours. Keishin called every single player on the squad, checking in on them, inquiring over their welfare, letting each of them vent and babble as they needed, and at some point, conveying the latest loss to the squad. It was certainly nothing to be happy about, yet Keishin was grateful _only_ two had been lost. After finishing a call with Kageyama, he found himself slumped over the steering wheel of his car in the hospital parking lot. He'd been avoiding talking to one player in particular, and now that boy was the only one left. He highlighted Hinata's name in his contacts' list and put the phone to his ear.

And then Keishin rapidly hung up before the first ring.

He bent deeply over the steering wheel, gnashing his teeth. No, he'd forgotten: he couldn't call Hinata.

* * *

 **I struggled with Kiyoko, but ultimately I like her being the one to quietly manage the team while Ukai figures out what to do. Any comments about Ukai and Shimizu appreciated.**

 **For those wondering why Yachi has so little role, it's because I developed the story before I saw the whole series, so she wasn't on my radar. On a separate note, I have had a couple of ideas for one-chapter drabbles about events that take place between different chapters. I may post a few if there's interest and perhaps could write one for Yachi.**

 **Now the big question: W** **hy can't Ukai call Shoyo? Wait and see. But, y** **es, he is alive and, no, he's not still a hostage if that's what you're thinking. It might take longer to get the final two chapters done, though; I think I might even post them separately too rather than both at the same time. Any delays will be announced on my profile page.**


	9. Monday, 6:05 pm

**And now, the frightful ordeal of Monday comes to an end...**

* * *

Shoyo was too afraid to take any action on his own. Stuffed into the cramped legroom of the back of Takeda's car, he could only see and smell the must of discarded papers and the feet of passengers long gone. The man who'd shoved him into the vehicle heedlessly crushed Shoyo's calves with his boots. The car revved at high gear. How was Yamaguchi? How was Takeda? The car lurched off the parking brake and swerved widely with a squeal. Where were they going?

How much longer did Shoyo have to live?

The first gunshots came from the man in the backseat, firing over Shoyo's torso through the window above his head. Specks of glass sprinkled Hinata's hair. He was too terrified to look up or shift his body, only pulling his hands towards his face and into a fist as he whimpered. He felt that this was the moment of his death—surreally drawn out in slow motion. Each earsplitting gunshot, each jolt on the sedan's depleted shocks, each irritating dig of the tread of his captor's sole into his legs, each uncomfortable jab of the center console into his hip, each chafing of the carpet on his chin—all seemed mortal wounds in an excruciatingly protracted act of dying.

Shoyo couldn't hear the engine any more over the clatter of the assault rifle. The car seemed to have made a 180, as now the gunman was firing through the opposite window. The deafening, rhythmic pops echoed and pounded inside Shoyo's head, the noise seemingly funneled into the cubby where Shoyo lay. Hinata was too petrified to even attempt to cover his ears, whining like an autistic boy beside a fire alarm. He wanted the painful, migraine-inducing strain in his ears to subside.

A deep boom rocked the car, thumping Shoyo's forehead against the door. Police had shot out one of the tires, causing the sedan to spin dizzily before screeching to a halt. A sustained barrage of police gunfire aimed principally at the driver's seat ensued, forcing even the rear gunman to duck across the backseat. Amidst metallic clangs and high-pitched dings of the windshield, Shoyo threw his palms over his head while shreds of leather from the driver's seat floated onto his form. Then there was silence, save for gunshot-induced tinnitus in Shoyo's ears. The mastermind of the criminals plopped against the steering wheel. The car horn wailed beneath the man's deadweight, drowning out the incessant ringing in Hinata's head. The momentary calm made Shoyo think for a second he was saved, until a hand yanked him up by the collar.

The last surviving gunman flung Hinata over into his lap, ostensibly to keep the last hostage close at hand. Resting the butt of his assault rifle atop Shoyo's cheekbone, the shooter sprayed rounds on the police who had annihilated his comrade. The rapid clacks of the gun were even more painful, frighteningly close to his ears, curdling his blood, and reverberating his heart. The interminable blaring of the horn was an ambient nuisance. Shoyo squeaked with every piercing stab in his ear drums, the butt of the gun savagely pogoing off his temple. Then, just when Shoyo thought his ear might explode, it felt as if it did.

He screamed the highest his pitch would allow him. Aggravated by the wailing, the gunman shoved Hinata across the backseat. The boy covered his pulsating eardrum with both palms while the other, inflamed but less hypertensive ear rattled with the rattling of the gun. And then, that ear too seemed to internally implode. Hinata shrieked again, dousing both ears with his palms. His inner ear was stuffy, exploding with pressure. He felt like he would vomit, while the tinnitus evoked the shellshock sensation he knew from videogames. Shoyo's active tear ducts smeared the seat leather, the boy praying the agony inside his skull would cease.

He no longer noticed the sound of shooting, Shoyo suddenly realized, and presumed his captor was reloading. He eyed the door on the other side of the sedan and resolved to make an escape. Though envisioning an athletic leap for the door, his disoriented muscles clambered awkwardly until the door handle was within reach. Releasing the latch, he propped his bodyweight against the door to swing it open. Shoyo tumbled shoulder first out of the vehicle, his temple ricocheting painfully on the cement.

Amidst the mysterious lack of sound, Shoyo forgot the precariousness of his situation. He curled his knees towards his chest to drag his legs out of the car, hunched forward, and pressed his hands to the pounding spot where his head hit the pavement. His wrist picked up a smudge of blood, though it didn't come from the swelling lump on his skull. He rubbed two fingers across the side of his face to find the origin; the blood was coming from his ear.

Before Shoyo could react, a hand seized his arm and hoisted him upright. The standing gunman had fumbled out of the car too and now kept Shoyo a human shield while spraying another magazine at law enforcement. Shoyo clenched his eyelids shut, trying not to envision the violence.

When the gunman exhausted yet another round, he twisted Shoyo closer while tiptoeing backward. The shooter ditched the empty assault rifle. Hinata's eyes opened to a wall of shield-wielding police officers forming an entanglement, the whole scene strangely devoid of sound.

And that made it all the more terrifying.

The police officers paused in unison and warily stepped away. Shoyo couldn't see why their countenance had changed, blind to the grenade his captor held above his head. Even so, he knew the behavioral change was a bad sign. It was over, Shoyo thought.

Now, he would die.

Without warning or explanation, his subjugator flopped forward, towing Shoyo by the arm down too. He didn't know it, but a daring, rooftop marksman had added another kill to their tally. The orange-haired lad crashed on his back, flat on the pavement, his eyes vacuously beholding a wide open blue sky. The sun hovered somewhere beyond his peripherals, just too far to blind him. Less aware of the soreness from his fall, he found the concrete soothingly warm. Despite that, he shivered uncontrollably, teeth chattering tensely. The pressure around his arm remained but was strangely solid and lifeless now. Shoyo dared not move his head or pupils to see around him.

A few moments later, police encroached on his field of vision, their guns trained on the downed suspect immediately adjacent. Medical personnel appeared and attended to Hinata. Shoyo's heart sank, unsure what was happening. The paramedics' lips moved soundlessly as a foray of responders clogged his view of the vast, pure blue sky.

* * *

 **What does this bode for poor Shoyo? The answer in Chapter 10...will come next week.**

 **Thank you for the readers who've stuck through this far; I'm grateful for your support just by your readership in what was a strange work of catharsis for me. After chapter 10, I'll return to my normal-and relatively less "intense"-writing, if you'd like to see more.**


	10. Thursday, 10 pm

**I wasn't too happy with the ending when I wrote this in the middle of last week. It felt too hopeful. But now, I feel that a hopeful ending is what this story needs.**

* * *

 _Kageyama hates me._

That's what Hinata thought.

All the times he'd received visitors in the hospital, Kageyama hugged the back wall. Everyone else would give him solace—Yamaguchi (even if his happiness felt fake), Coach Ukai (who remained as detached and clinical as the hospital itself), Kiyoko (who seemed too spiritually invested in Hinata's wellbeing for her own good). But Kageyama would avoid eye contact, invariably gazing into a random corner. Hinata would search the setter's misdirected pupils, seeking the source of the reclusiveness. Sure, Hinata appreciated the support of his other friends. But he wanted Kageyama.

He wanted the person whom he felt he'd let down.

Hinata hadn't said anything the moment Tobio stepped out of the gym, but he truly believed he'd spoken it with his eyes and that Kageyama had received the telepathic message: "I'll be OK."

Shoyo plodded onto the tennis court in the yard of a fitness center that adjoined the hospital. He didn't know why he was still in outpatient care and not at home like the others. The reason didn't matter as the prognosis was already certain, and he felt asking the reason behind his continued hospitalization be scribbled on paper far too tedious. Instead, he had snuck out every night to the lonely tennis court with a volleyball Ennoshita gave him. Tonight would be his third round of "testing" his condition.

Shoyo took up a position facing the tennis net, volleyball in hands. He flung the volleyball straight with a gentle, rearward torque and shut his eyes. If he could detect the faintest thump of the ball on the turf, he'd know the docs had screwed up.

Hinata stood, eyes clenched shut as he envisioned the ball's arc and descent. Right when he imagined the volleyball hitting the ground, he perceived what seemed to be a sound to his right.

Shoyo's spine whipped around so he could look over his shoulder. He searched the ground for the ball. He knew he'd heard it. He was positive. His pupils dashed madly, but the ball wasn't there. His eyes glanced rightward, looking towards what would be his left.

There, the ball wobbled in place.

Failed again.

From a berm overlooking the tennis courts, Kageyama pitiably ogled the spiker. Ukai spotted Hinata there when leaving the hospital the past two eves and tipped Tobio off.

"Go see him," Ukai said over the phone earlier that day. "If anyone can talk some sense into him, it's you." Tobio balked at the phrase "talk" but didn't say anything over the phone. Still, Kageyama didn't know why he himself came out here in the first place. If Shoyo wanted to be stupid and difficult and denialist (he thought that was the word), that was his business.

Even so, Tobio could barely look at Hinata. The spiker whose palpable abilities he'd adored since the beginning of high school—the end of middle school even—was reduced to a pitiful, self-defeating joke. Tobio gulped. He wanted to tiptoe away, but he'd felt incredibly guilty for making no attempt to interact with Shoyo during sanctioned visitor hours. He didn't even visit today. Just when he thought he could walk off, Tobio's brain convinced him any movement would somehow be noticed by Shoyo and then his presence would be exposed. He was here, so he had to take the plunge.

Stepping through the gate Shoyo'd left open, Kageyama found the lad sprawled on his back, gazing at the distant, twinkling stars. Tobio wanted to cough to make his presence known; he found himself mildly irked that he'd so far gone totally unnoticed. Just as he was about to step closer, Shoyo sat upright. His peripherals caught an inkling of Kageyama, and the boy wordlessly stumbled to his feet, taking a wary step backwards. Kageyama didn't like being treated like a stranger. Stay calm, he told himself. Be polite—whatever that meant.

"Hey," Kageyama greeted reticently, peering aside. He flinched, realizing the uselessness of words. He shyly waved one palm.

Shoyo ogled his late-night caller. "Hey," he sounded and also waved, only coincidentally imitating Tobio's greeting.

Kageyama continued to defer his glance. Why? Hinata wondered. Why was his setter so averse to looking at him? They were friends too—or maybe they weren't, Hinata reconsidered. It didn't matter. The fact was Shoyo had mutely promised to make it out of their predicament alive, well, and ready to play volleyball again. He'd lied, and Kageyama must hate him for that. But on top of being disabled, on top of bearing self-imposed guilt, he couldn't bear to be ostracized by the player he felt the greatest bond toward and desire to be understood by. He bit his lip and shook fiercely.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. Though he couldn't perceive his own soundwaves, his brain retained the strange power to hear the words as they were sent to his vocal cords.

Kageyama jolted. He grimaced, as if angry. "For what?" he questioned brusquely.

Shoyo stepped back, sensing Kageyama's frustration. Sensing Shoyo's reaction and not born with patience, Kageyama spat to the side. "Idiot," he grumbled pointlessly.

After another moment, Tobio produced a notepad and pencil proffered by their coach. He held the lead above the leaf of paper as if ready to take dictation. Shoyo stared. Finally Kageyama wrote the only thing he could think of to ask at this time and handed the notepad to Hinata.

"How are you?" it read.

"Fine," Shoyo answered aloud, handing the notepad back. Kageyama wrote another question instantly.

"Does it hurt?"

Physically, no; emotionally, yes. Hinata didn't know how to answer the question so shrugged his shoulders.

"Will—" Kageyama wrote then balked. "Will you ever get better?" was what he wanted to say, but he knew the answer to that. After a few moments of hesitating, he scribbled down the only other thing he could think of, irrespective of the propriety of the matter.

"Will you play volleyball again?"

Shoyo stared long at the words on. He pouted and then solemnly faced Tobio.

"Yes," he voiced. Whatever it takes, he added in the privacy of his own mind.

Rather than accept the notepad back, Tobio stepped over to the abandoned volleyball. He subsequently lined up with the tennis net, ball in hands, and appeared ready to serve the ball Hinata's way. Shoyo's pupils dilated.

Was Tobio going to set for him?

Tobio launched the ball on a medium-strength arc. Shoyo ran a wide 180 to gain momentum then leaped into the trajectory of the ball. At the highest point in the sphere's arc, Shoyo's hand contacted the rubber, jettisoning it over the net and bouncing into the fence at the other end of the court.

Upon landing, Hinata couldn't believe his eyes. Kageyama had set the ball for him, and he spiked it. He'd spiked it! He found himself irrepressibly jubilant. He leapt bouncily in place, screaming like a fool. Kageyama, who had jogged to the other end of the court to snag the ball, pressed a finger to his lips and futilely shushed the elated spiker. Soon Hinata noticed Kageyama was back in positon, but this time he made one of their familiar signs with his fingers to communicate the set. Hinata nodded acknowledgement, and Tobio set up again. Shoyo spiked the ball as directed by the sign, the rubber sphere trotting its way across the tennis court into the fence once more. Shoyo beamed hugely.

He knew the set Kageyama was going for based on his pose and the signals. A crazy idea swirled in his head.

Could this really work?

It was inconceivable to say, but did he absolutely need _sound_ to play volleyball?

To Kageyama's dismay, suddenly Shoyo was charging him. The energetic lad leaped onto Tobio, trapping the setter in a pint-sized bear hug, spinning Kageyama in place as Hinata twirled around him. Tobio gently shoved Hinata away, but Shoyo was too joyful to take offense.

"We can do this!" Shoyo celebrated.

It would take a lot of effort, and doubtless Shoyo hadn't considered exactly how much effort. Tobio didn't think he had really considered how difficult a task this would be either. Even so, the boy in front of him appeared to be the same idiot he'd known prior to their life-changing events. Tobio grinned. They locked hands and pumped their arms.

They could—no, would—do this.

As Hinata vivaciously bounced away shouting, Kageyama tried yelling and then waving his arms to get Shoyo's attention. Shoyo halted and cocked his head sideways. Tobio was writing on the notepad quickly.

"What were you sorry for?" the paper read. Hinata glared at the question. Funnily enough, at that moment, Shoyo couldn't remember.

Hinata waved for Tobio to pass him the pencil. Instead of replying verbally, Shoyo scribbled a response on the same sheet in the notepad and returned it. Tobio beheld the page with anxious anticipation.

"For making you worry," the words read. Tobio put the pad and pencil in his pocket, inwardly rebuked himself for his earlier reluctance, and accepted the volleyball back in a toss from Hinata, who himself had gone to retrieve it.


End file.
